


The Seventeenth Time of Asking

by SandwichesYumYum



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Complete, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-10
Updated: 2015-10-10
Packaged: 2018-04-25 11:37:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4959205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SandwichesYumYum/pseuds/SandwichesYumYum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jaime Lannister and Brienne of Tarth. A one-shot fic for J/B Week.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Seventeenth Time of Asking

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nurdles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nurdles/gifts).



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>  A gift for Nurdles. My thanks to RoseHeart, who made this possible. Happy J/B Week to all.

 

** The Seventeenth Time of Asking **

There is something innately calming in watching Brienne tend to her weapon. Old movements, repeated so many times, have become second nature to her; her fingers seem to spill out efficient capability as components are taken apart, inspected, and reassembled with deft care. In looking at her sidearm, anyone else might take in the scratched, black surface and think it unsafe. Jaime knows better. There is no other gun he would rather have at his side. No other soldier, either.

Jaime squints up into the clear blue sky, almost wishing for the sight of a single, wispy cloud, of anything different in the daylight hours, as he tracks the position of the glaring sun. Having done so, he turns to Brienne, blinking fiercely to shed the golden disc that has briefly imprinted itself behind his eyelids. “That’s the third time you’ve done that this afternoon,” Jaime says.

Brienne smiles at him and slouches, stretching out her legs alongside his and thumping her heels against the opposite wall. “It seems to be all we have in the way of entertainment.”

“You don’t find me entertaining?”

“Even your charms wear thin after three days stuck in the same section of trench, Jaime.”

“Never,” Jaime chuckles, roughly bumping their arms together. There comes a series of distant explosions, so far off they are reduced to dull thuds in the air about them. “Ours or theirs?” She’s always possessed a slightly better sense of hearing in battle.

Brienne’s gaze sweeps out to their left, distant and measuring. She nods towards the mountains; a few tiny tips of wind-eroded rock the only features they can see of their surroundings, from this hiding place. “Sounds like they’re hitting our lines out near the Saddleback.”

“We might as well put up a fucking neon sign. _Sitting ducks. Over here.”_

“Speak for yourself,” Brienne yawns, trying to rub away some of the all-pervading umber dust from her eyes. She is not quite successful, only managing to create two large smears of brownish-red across her cheeks, obscuring some of her freckles. “I’ve never felt less like a duck in my life. It’s so _dry_ here. How did we end up serving in the middle of the Red Wastes again?”

“Fucked if I know, Brienne,” Jaime says, picking at his caked bootlaces. “But another few days of this and even I’ll being hankering for the lost, and somewhat dubious, home comforts of Sothroyos.”

“You _loathed_ the jungle, Jaime,” Brienne says, her smile bright. “’There are too many insects! It’s always raining. I’m so sweaty all the time! It smells like rotting plants everywhere! Terrifying monkeys!’”

He shoves her so hard that she nearly tips onto her side, but she pushes herself back up and replies in kind, close to convulsing with silent laughter. “And all of that was true, Brienne,” Jaime chuckles, what little seriousness in him swept away, “except for the monkeys. I rather liked the monkeys.” He slowly rights himself and stares at Brienne with an outrageous amount of disdain. “Besides, at least I didn’t go native and start eating bugs from underneath tree bark. Unlike _some_ people I could name.”

“You ate snake,” Brienne says, biting her dry lips. “Though if I remember rightly, you complained to me about that too.”

And how he had, even if neither of them have ever chanced to say out loud what they both know; that their constant bickering was, by that time, a touchstone for them both. Something they could fall back on and bound them closer in comradeship. Something that allowed them the freedom to let off steam. Something of the familiar in a strange land. A really _unpleasant_ strange land. Though this one isn’t proving a great deal better than the last. “I don’t know, Brienne. If there’s one thing that can be said for the jungle, at least the menu is varied. I would give my left nut for one of those jewel snakes, about now.”

Long gone is the Brienne Tarth who, once upon a time, would stutter, her cheeks blazing at the mere mention of certain parts of the male anatomy.  She’s been a soldier too long and, out of necessity, shared the odd bucket, or hundred, with Jaime and others on the way. Still, the girl she used to be is not entirely gone. There is something in the way she hesitates before answering, a moment of what seems to be shyness, coupled with an internal scramble for words that Jaime always adores provoking. He loves her face, an open book to him in a way it isn’t for anyone else, and even if he regrets when that flash of the naïve recruit he met so many years ago ebbs, he cherishes the more blunt curiosity that overtakes her as she swings her head around to look at him directly as well. “ _Would_ you?”

“No,” Jaime admits. “Snakes have too many bones. And they’re too damned rubbery. But it would make a change from the constant and plentiful supply of corned nagmeat we’re getting around here.”

“It’s made from the finest cuts of hrazef,” Brienne tells him, with much gravitas, though the slight twitching of her lips gives her away. “It must be true. It says so on every tin.”

“Well, for my part, I’d rather they stopped canning every herd of horses they can lay their bloody hands on and started sending us things we actually need. Desert camo would be nice,” Jaime says, holding his arm out between them. Dolefully, they both look at the wholly inappropriate green khaki hanging there. “I don’t know about you, Brienne, but I don’t exactly feel like I fade into the background here.”

“I thought you said there was no way you ever could?”’ Brienne asks, reaching across in front of Jaime to pick at the brown holes in the khaki covering his right forearm. “And at least you’re trying.”

Jaime twists his wrist free. “Are you saying that I got myself shot at Wyvern Point, just on the off chance that the bloodstains on my sleeve might protect my arm from future injury in the desert?”

Brienne pats the limb she was instrumental in saving, her face very close to his. “It sounds like the perfect Lannister plot to me.”

“Don’t you go mocking my pain,” Jaime laughs, relishing the feel of her breath washing over his skin. They may both be baking under layers of thick cotton, but this is the warmth he needs.

“Mocking your pain? Who was the one that spent ten hours dragging you to a field hospital?”

Jaime brushes his nose against Brienne’s, a memory of looking up through thick green foliage as his back was jarred by a gnarled tree-root overpowering, yet brief. “Dragged being a good description of it. And that was after you strapped mud to my wounds, wasn’t it?”

“Moss, Jaime,” Brienne whispers, lifting her hand to his face and slowly running her forefinger along his eyebrow. “It was moss.”

He can’t define quite what it is about her voice that stills his chest with a sweet ache, and he doesn’t get the chance to. A fresh burst of shellfire lands, this time audibly closer. For just a split-second, they stare at each other, a question they have often asked each other now coming wordlessly, spoken in sudden pallor under sun burned skin and eyes, widened in alarm.

_Is this it?_

Yet they are old hands at this now. Jaime is already pulling his radio from his pocket and Brienne reaching for their pack whilst they tear their gazes apart. He turns up the volume, trying to get some sense of what is going on, though the communication channels are a mess of crossed messages. Jaime decides to wait for a minute, to see if anything concrete comes from the stretch of line presently under bombardment.

Brienne has retrieved one of the ragged edged, thin red cotton scarves from a zipped section of the large rucksack at her side. While they listen intently to the garbled chatter, she ties it around Jaime’s head, securing it tightly with a knot at the base of his skull. She then does the same for herself. Jaime remains unwilling to admit that Brienne’s moment of apparent madness, when she ran _into_ a burning textiles factory three moons past to rescue three large bolts of cloth, was a sound choice. Yet time may have proven her right. There is no doubt that many of the scant few hundred men and women who still remain in the miles of ancient trenches zig-zagging the width of this desolate valley owe their lives to these smoke scented scraps, their dark helmets too obvious a target when moving in cuts too shallow to hide the taller, modern frame.

He tucks a few of her stray, pale hairs under her scarf and even while they are both desperately listening for anything new, Jaime asks, “So what was with the moss, just now?”

“I sometimes think of your eyes as mossy,” Brienne says, a fact she might never have ventured, if she weren’t so distracted. She scrabbles through the pack again, fishing out a monocular.

“You mean muddy?”

“I mean _mossy_ ,” she insists, grabbing a handful of fine dust from the base of the trench and smothering her face and hands with it, an action that leaves her spitting out the spare grains from between heat chapped lips.

“Marry me,” Jaime says.

Brienne scowls. “Not _this_ again.” She pushes herself up into a crouch, hiding the monocular within the folds of her large fingers, before she rises just above the edge of the trench, peering out into the arena of conflict.

Jaime is about to tell her 'yes, this _again'_ , wondering just how many times he has to make a fool of himself before she will see, but then the moment is gone, when another explosion seems to propel Brienne from the front of their narrow sanctuary to the rear, though it was no nearer than the last.

“Something’s off here,” she rasps, taking a few seconds to adjust the focus of the monocular. “Oh, _fuck_ ,” she groans, and that snares Jaime’s concern as almost nothing else could. This is only the third time he’s ever heard her curse, and given the circumstances of her doing so in the past, it doesn’t exactly bode well for them now.

“What is it?”

She drops to her knees at his side. “They’re starting to take out the supply trenches.” They look at each other bleakly, knowing what that means. They’re the only relatively safe route out for the troops on the frontline, so anyone left behind as the enemy advances south will be massacred. Or simply allowed to starve, or die of thirst, cut off from everything they need to survive in this inhospitable warren. A fate deserved by no soldier, friend or foe. “Jaime, I’m sorry, but if he’s gone, that leaves you in charge.” Brienne plucks the radio from his lap, where he has unconsciously dropped it, and folds his fingers gently around it. “Make the call. I’ll second it.”

Jaime huffs, almost nervous. “I didn’t think I’d ever be in this position again,” he mutters. “Will they listen?”

“Yes,” Brienne says, knowing that he had left the words ‘to me’ unsaid. His reputation is far past salvaging.

He hits the command override button and speaks. “This is Jaime Lannister, tenth cloak of White Guard, Company A. LC Marbrand is out of contact. I am calling for a full retreat from all forward trenches. I repeat, a full retreat from all forward trenches.”

Brienne nods and takes the radio. “This is Brienne Tarth, twelfth cloak of the White Guard, Company A, confirming the order of 10C Jaime Lannister. Retreat to base camps _at best speed_. Our supply trenches are also under attack. Be aware the window of opportunity for movement is small. Good luck.” He can almost hear her grinding her teeth for a moment as she places the radio back on his thigh. That she wants to give more information is clear, but they both know it will do little good. Right now, the best chance for every one of their people is that they get out, as fast as they can. It doesn’t mean that they haven’t just ordered a number of troops to their deaths. They are simply more likely to live through chance, random shelling on this retreat, than isolation behind the advancing enemy lines out on the Red Wastes.

Brienne frowns as she leans forward, resting the weight of her upper-body on her right hand as she swings the huge pack up onto her back. She grunts as the weight of it settles there, securing the strap over her left shoulder before shifting her balance to do the same on her right. Then she glances critically back at Jaime. “You don’t seem to be in any hurry.”

“I think I’ll give him another few minutes.”

“You could have _said,”_ Brienne hisses, glaring at him from underneath her burden, going on to caution, “It could be costly.”’

Jaime offers no excuses and tugs at the corner of their largest piece of red cotton, tucking it in over the top half of the pack, tying it where he can with a couple of thin black strings. “You can go, Brienne.”

She shifts back to a kneeling position, letting loose a decidedly unpretty harrumph. “As if I ever would,” she says, with an air of resignation. “And besides, who’ll carry our pack when I get tired of it?”

“I’ll take it as soon as you want me to,” Jaime tells her, knowing that she will carry it as far as she can anyway, as he will too, when it is his turn. It has been years since they worked out they can cover ground faster that way; a never-ending relay, with repeated periods of recovery, proving easier for them both.

There is quiet then. Even the radio has fallen virtually silent, no words cutting through the air other than a brief warning of sniper activity off to the south. The scramble for life is on, and they might be the only ones ignoring it.

“The shelling’s stopped,” Brienne eventually says. “Maybe they heard the call to retreat. Do you think they’re going to let us go?”

She looks at him with such hope then, the sincerity of it blinding under dust and grime, and it is a reminder of the girl she once was. She is young yet, twenty-six hardly being a great age, and if it makes Jaime feel every minute older than her that he is, those years opening up like a chasm between them, he still can’t resist one last throw of the dice; though if she rejects him with such conviction again, he decides then and there that at least he can be sure he was never going to be enough for her. “Your stubborn belief in the goodness of others is just one of the reasons I mean it, Brienne. I’ve always meant it.”

She looks at him in confusion. “Meant _what_?” Yet no further explanation seems necessary, for as soon as she says it, her face twists and she doubles over, a low wail escaping her throat. She slaps at the bedrock beneath them in fury, or desperation. “Why must you be so cruel about _this_ , Jaime? _Why?”_

Jaime scrambles across the trench and sits next to her head, grasping at her hands, stilling them in place. “Cruel, Brienne?” If this is what she truly thinks of him, it is little wonder that she can’t bring herself to contemplate anything more between them than they already have.

Her back sags under the weight of their pack and her fingers curl into fists underneath his. When she speaks again, Brienne simply sounds exhausted. “I know how I look, Jaime. I can’t change that. Say what you will. But why do you have laugh at my future? You know I have no hope of a happy one.”

“You think I’m laughing at your _hope_?” He's laughing _now_ , though more in disbelief than anything, as he pulls her back up, gently pushing at her shoulders until she is safely balanced on her knees once more. “Brienne, your hope was one of the first things I ever loved about you.”

“Loved?” she breathes, a silent tear rolling down her cheek. “You meant it?”

“Of course I did. I do,” he says, all too aware that he is keeping back tears himself as he wipes hers away. “And when was the last time I had anything to say about your looks in any case?”

Brienne sniffs loudly and narrows her eyes in thought. She seems quite surprised when she answers. “After you were shot.”

He is surprised too, if not for the same reason. “I was hurt and under the impression you were trying to bash me against every single fucking tree root in a rainforest!” he teases. “Okay, so when was the last time _before_ I was shot?”

“I don’t know,” she whispers, and he sees the very moment when it all clicks in her head. She looks at him and smiles. “I really don’t. You _mean_ it.”

“Yes. I mean it. So, for the seventeenth time of asking, and on the condition that we make it out of this shithole in the first place,” Jaime swallows, his life surely more dependent on this moment than the years long war raging around them, “Brienne. Marry me?”

She closes her eyes at first, stroking furiously at the bridge of her nose, but the movement slows and then her eyes flicker open again. “Yes?”

“That doesn’t sound too resounding,” Jaime says.

“I just…” Brienne nibbles at her lower lip, staring at her knees. Her face is caught in a dance of uncertainty; one that Jaime isn’t miles from engaging in himself. He doesn’t expect her to respect him, and certainly doesn’t want her to accept him because of the frankly nonsensical idea that nobody could want her; just her desiring him would be enough to his mind. “I just figured you thought well of me as a friend. That you could trust me.”

“It’s more than that, but was there any better place to start?”

His question appears to go unheard, as Brienne finally looks straight at him again. “And I’ve always been handy in a fight.”

Jaime reaches for her chin, fondly brushing the tips of his fingers over it. The gesture leaves more red streaks in its wake. “Brienne, _Obara_ can fight. Just how many times have you seen me falling asleep under the stars with her?”

Brienne dips her head, a small grin stealing across her lips as, no doubt, she pictures the fierce leader of the Viper Companies just as clearly as Jaime is. “I’m not sure she’d allow it.”

“Could be, but if I’m going to fall asleep under the stars with anyone, I want it to be with _you_. Like last night. And all the other ones.” He doesn’t know how often they’ve found scant rest together, but the night before is starkly fresh in his mind. They’d sat side by side, only feet away from where they are now, looking up at the stars shining in the inky black sky. They talked about the milky band of the galaxy, arcing overhead, about how it seemed to lead both to home and the heartlands of the enemy. And that there they were, stuck in the middle. Eventually, Brienne slumped against him, snoring lightly, her mouth gaping. He’d known she would remain still, for she always did, as he wiped away a little drool from the corner of her mouth with the hem of his sleeve and tipped his own head slightly, to rest against the top of hers. And if the desert air was too cool in the darkness, he hadn’t cared, except for wanting her safe. And maybe a touch more comfortable.

He thinks of that now, as he leans closer to her. “Or we could go for a bed, somewhere safe.” For the first time in what feels like eons, the layering of sheer suggestion in his tone works, though her newly resurgent blush can only really be seen on the tip of her nose. "We could go _wild_ and try one under a roof. And if you miss the stars, we can always get some of those glow-in-the-dark ones people stick on their ceilings."

"Yes," she says, and now he can tell she is sure, even if, a mere second or two later, he finds himself pinned against the trench wall, unable to see a damned thing. "Jaime. I’ve loved you for years."

With a low groan, he pushes her off again. That was some collision, as she is never feather light. "Brienne, I’m strong enough when you’re not wearing our pack. Not so much when you are." Only then do her words fully seep in and Jaime feels his heart lurch as understanding hits him harder than she has. _"You_ love _me_?" he asks, shaking his head, not quite wanting to believe it, in case he has finally been driven to madness by war.

"Yes," Brienne says, as if it the most natural thing in the world.

"I was convinced that you thought me a complete shitheap of a man," Jaime says, his chin dropping to his chest and his breath spilling out of him unsteadily in relief.

Soon enough, however, his face is lifted once more. Brienne's eyes are as brilliant as he has ever seen them. She offers no apologies for her rejections. She knows he would not want them. Instead, she softly asks, "When did you first ask me, Jaime? I don’t remember."

That doesn't hurt as it could. If she has truly thought him playing a game, there would be no reason for her to recall it. "Four and half years ago. Or thereabouts," he adds, unwilling to concede that he can name the day. The hour. Probably the minute. That he can still see her now, clear as anything, finally losing her endless fucking patience after two hours of trying to light a fire without a hint of success. On reflection, Jaime thinks it may not have been the best moment for him to choose.

"No wonder they all call us 'those two idiots'."

He moves one of Brienne's hands to press a kiss onto a dusty palm, only he finds it sweaty, the deeper lines salty and dark. "When they're feeling charitable. I was kind of hoping they said that because of our inhuman valour and bravery in battle."

Brienne shuffles around to his side, leaning against the wall to let it bear some weight. She pulls Jaime towards her and rests her forehead against his. "We should go," she says.

"Yes," he breathes.

So they don't.

If it is unwise that they remain, neither of them seem to pay it any mind. Dry lips touch softly, soundlessly. They are sore and if they catch, it doesn't matter; the hurt is small, the momentary movement of mouths to softer cheeks never lasting long. Yet this is no adolescent rush to any kind of bed, no tearing passion that could collapse the skies. It is something far more important. This is about being whole, and if everything were to end in the next few seconds, Jaime knows that he has never felt it as strongly as he is now. He doesn't think he ever could.

They dance, in their own quiet way, and Jaime fails to even hear the tramping of boots until a hand lands heavily on his shoulder. “I’d say about time, but this really isn’t the _right_ time, you know.”

Jaime twists away from Brienne, looking up into the wide smile of their commanding officer, who is looming casually over them both. “We thought you were dead.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” Addam mutters urbanely, ruffling his long red hair, which he rightly sees as a distinct advantage on this particular battleground. He kicks at Jaime's stretched legs with a moderate amount of force until they are shifted out of the way of the sorry looking column following him, and waves them firmly on through. “A group of us got caught on the arse side of a hit in Gold trench. Lost my radio. Status update?” he asks.

“We’re getting married.” Jaime knows he’s grinning like a fool. He simply doesn’t care.

 _“Not_ what I meant, Jaime,” Addam chuckles, patting Jaime’s shoulder again.

He takes the radio from Brienne, who has pried it from Jaime's possession, offering it up to the Lord Commander. “We sent out the call to retreat.”

“At least one of you still has sense," Addam says. "What details did you give, Brienne?”

“Just that our supply trenches were under fire as well. There’s been word of some enemy sniper fire to the south.”

“Good to know," he says, lifting the radio. "This is LC Addam Marbrand of the White Guard, Company A, with further details on the current retreat, which I am officially confirming now. All troops should make their way to Camps Riverrun and Sunspear, post-haste. Camp Hardhome is currently under fire and cannot be considered secure. Any troops north of the Drogo configuration should head south. This message serves as notification to the Retrieval Squads to deploy and pull our people out of there. Go get ‘em, Beardy.”

There is a hiss of static before a familiar voice is heard. “Will do, Ginge.”

“And hurry on back. Looks like you have a family wedding to attend.”

“About bloody time,” Daven laughs in reply, though the beat of boot leather on sand in the background makes it clear he is already off and running. “Those two fucking idiots! Pride One, out.”

 Addam dangles the radio in between Brienne and Jaime. “Either of you care to confirm?”

Brienne snatches the radio away, her face thunderous as she speaks into it. “This is 12C Brienne Tarth of the White Guard, Company A, confirming… _everything_ LC Marbrand just said. Good luck,” she finishes shortly. She hands the radio back to Addam. "Did you _have_ to?"

"I couldn't resist," he shrugs, though if there is humour in him, it is dark.

Each of them knows why. "That will _all_ have been heard, Addam," Jaime says, tilting his head towards the enemy lines. "Over there." Their stranded soldiers needed to be told where to go, but now it's going to become a bloodbath.

"There was no choice, Jaime," Addam says, explaining, "Secure comms have been down for the last couple of hours." He slaps Jaime, yet again, on the back. "Go on, you two. Get the hells out of here."

"How many are left to follow, Addam?" The moment Brienne asks it, a pit opens up in Jaime's stomach. He doesn't need to guess where this is going.

Addam helps a couple of men squeeze through the narrow gap in the trench with a stretcher as he thinks on it. "Maybe a dozen."

"I’ll hurry them up," Brienne says. Inevitably.

"It could be _costly_ , Brienne," Jaime spits, not wanting to lose her now.

"You can _go_ , Jaime," she answers straight back, infuriatingly mulishly.

Yet if they are going to fling their own words back at each other, Jaime decides to change the manner of it. He cups Brienne's face and fondly says, "As if I ever would." Then he turns to his friend and delivers a wide-handed slap across his chest, which Jaime considers thoroughly deserved. He doesn't remember there being nearly so much damned horseplay when he was the LC. "Go on, Addam. You take point. We’ll chivvy them along. Who’s bringing up the rear?

"A Maester," Addam tells them, paying no heed at all to Jaime's retaliation. "Name of Sam. Uninjured. He’s not far behind."

They grasp each other's wrists and give a firm shake, and then their commander does the same with Brienne. "Lead us home, Addam," she says. "Good luck."

Addam starts to move out, winnowing his way adeptly past a few of those in his charge, but then he stops and calls back. "Do you want me to rustle up a septon for you? Meri wouldn’t mind officiating, I reckon."

"Let him say his words for the dead, first," Brienne sombrely replies. "Then? Yes, I think."

If Addam nods in approval at her sense of propriety and leaves, disappearing from sight, Jaime just raises his eyebrows. "Way to kill a mood, Brienne," he says, only to realize what has just been hastily arranged. "Wait, _today?_ Good to know," he happily huffs, pressing a kiss to the corner of her mouth, only to look around sharply when the constant sound of footsteps ceases.

Three soldiers, all weary and bearing a collection of small bandages, covering minor wounds, are openly staring at them both. "What are you gawping at?" Jaime snaps. He can feel Brienne wanting to sink into the ground beneath them. "Don't you know there's a war on? Move it along!" They do, though Jaime sees them all grinning as they recommence their trek to safety. He doesn't mind. Fuck knows, this place could do with a bit of happiness. There's been little enough to spare of late.

He reaches for Brienne's hand and strokes at her palm, a gesture she returns as two more of the walking wounded traipse on by. They seem tired, but able, the dogged determination on their faces a sign that they can make it.

For a short time, nobody else appears, but then a figure comes into view that raises immediate concern. "Oh, no," Brienne murmurs, and Jaime can do nothing but agree.

"Wait here," he tells Brienne, running in a crouch for the thirty or so feet to the man wearing a medic's armband who is, at best, confused by what he has seen or, at worst, far more injured than he was thought to have been. He is actually turning around on the spot, obviously uncertain of which direction he ought to be headed.

When he reaches him, Jaime grips his shoulders. "Are you Sam?"

Jaime takes in the sickly sallowness of the lad's skin as he slowly answers, "Maester Samwell. Medic. 3rd Company of Chains."

"Has anyone fallen behind?"

"No." If there is some comfort in the sureness wrapped up in that word, it promptly dissipates when Sam stares at him in obvious bewilderment. "Everybody moves very fast around here, don’t they?"

Jaime hopes, as he sees just how very young this man is, that they are simply dealing with the shock that can happen after the earliest encounters of conflict. He still remembers Saltshore with terror, though he has seen far worse since.

"I take it you’re a conscript?" Jaime asks, as he manoeuvres the medic along the trench, at faster than walking speed, noting that he seems to have retained his balance thus far.

"Yes," Sam replies, though once more, he meanders away from the here and now, his voice high and wistful as he says, "I miss Oldtown."

"I’ve only been there a couple of times, but I miss it too," Jaime says, looking at Brienne grimly as they draw close and settle into place, Jaime on one knee and Sam merely hunched in place. He is far shorter than they are. Whether or not he is doing so on purpose, it serves adequately as protection in their current position. "I’m 10C Lannister." Jaime says points at Brienne. "This is 12C Tarth."

"Brienne Tarth? I've heard of you! It’s an honour, ma’am," Sam says, with too much cheeriness and the clumsiest of salutes, almost lacking any co-ordination.  

"See? Nobody _likes_ you," he whispers quickly to Brienne, even if he knows she will not be fooled by any of his attempts at levity. He looks back to the Maester. "Now listen to me, Sam." Jaime clicks his fingers a few times in front of the young man's nose to fully capture his perilously wandering attention, which is currently engaged by an ant on the wall of the trench. " _Listen._ We’re going to get you out of here. But I am going to be holding you like this," he says, stretching his arm to briefly grasp the back of the belt on Sam's uniform, "and I’ll be pushing you all the way, when we go. Just keep your legs moving. Do you understand?"

The young Maester breathes in deeply before saying anything. "Legs. Yes." Sam's pupils are too dark and his body carries the looseness of one who has recently lost a great deal of weight, meaning he is hardly the model of fitness. But if Jaime could curse Addam for leaving them to deal with this straggler, there is enough steel in those two words to convince Jaime that this cause is not a lost one. That the young man wants to fight to survive.

Brienne doesn't seem so positive. "Water first, Sam," she says, offering their canteen. As the medic gratefully drinks, Brienne rises to her feet, her back bent. She gently runs her fingers of one hand through Sam's hair, as if in comfort. Jaime hears her suck in a deep breath in the moment before her other hand rises. Two fingers tap firmly at a precise point on the back of Jaime's skull, just above where neck meets head.

He turns to her. 'Not good,' she mouths silently. The medic isn't uninjured after all, and their break for the safety of Camp Riverrun just became vastly more difficult. As Jaime contemplates the kind of decision he thought long behind him, he looks at Brienne's reaction to the situation, and knows there is no choice to make.

He sees the woman he loves, the woman who has found it in her heart to love him, slide out her dog tags from underneath the layers of her dark and battered uniform. If hers shine, a bright silver in the unremitting sunlight, Jaime knows it is not them she seeks. For hidden behind them, in her lone tilt against the regulations of military life, sits another one. A smaller one. Made of brass, in the years before letters and numbers were stamped into metal to last for future generations where bodies fall and rot, Jaime knows the engraved name there is almost worn away by time and movement. It is her father's. And it is not just for Brienne that it has become totemic. It is for Jaime too. He watches Brienne press her lips to that slip of metal, not so much a kiss to a loved one as an acknowledgement of all of those lives wasted in an endless conflict. That they are being remembered. That she does not wish to join them just yet.

Neither of them observe any of the more outlandish superstitions that blight the lives of so many of those brought up to fight in this inter-generational war that feels as if it is consuming the whole world. Yet this one they do, even if Jaime relies on it silently, one step removed from the source. It has worked for them so far, he thinks, as he rises from his knee and manhandles young Sam into place ahead of them. He grabs the water canteen from slightly pudgy fingers and replaces the cap with his teeth, holding it out behind him as his other hand wraps around the thick weave of the injured man's canvas belt.

He hears Brienne's tags being shoved back into place and feels the canteen disappear. Then longer fingers grasp his. He looks back at her. "Don’t you dare let go of me," he says, meaning both now and forever.

"As if I ever would," Brienne smiles, her hold tightening. "Jaime. We're going to _live_."

And he _believes_ her, as he speaks to Maester Samwell. "Are you ready, Sam?" A mess of unkempt, dark hair bobs up and down in front of him, and whatever lies ahead, Jaime has admiration for the rising of rounded shoulders, of the will in the new-found set of them.  The former Lord Commander of White Guard Company A pushes gently at the soft lower back of the sorely wounded man. "Then let's get the fuck out of here, shall we?"

 


End file.
